


Mark of Evil

by fictionalcandie



Category: American Idol RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-14
Updated: 2011-07-14
Packaged: 2017-10-21 09:44:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/223805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fictionalcandie/pseuds/fictionalcandie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kris’s one mission: to defeat Le Mustachioed Man the only way the Heroes know how — shave him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mark of Evil

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fictionalcandie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fictionalcandie/gifts).



> Fic for my own birthday! Yay!
> 
> Ahem. This is unconnected to everything ever. Except possibly Adam Lambert’s horrible facial growth from several months ago. At any rate, I blame [duva](duva.dreamwidth.org) for this, because she said Adam looked like he should be drinking scotch and ordering people killed, and then suddenly there was fic in my head. _Crack_ fic. *sighs*

It's got to be done.

The Glam Lair is a strange, dangerous place, and none who venture there ever emerge the same. Kris doesn't wish to add himself to the number, but it _must be done_.

The Beard _must_ be shaved.

—

Kris isn't a Hero, really. It says Heroes Alliance International on his paychecks, true, but that's about all Kris has in common with Heroes. He's just a secretary at their LA location, not anything special.

But during the last tactical meeting of the Board of Executive Good Guys, the CEO had asked who was available to go after Le Mustachioed Man, and suddenly everyone else in the room was discussing their longstanding, long-term plans to be incredibly busy for the next decade, or how they had urgent appointments with their spandex suppliers, and it turned out that the only person in the room who didn't have plans for that weekend was Kris.

(This is what comes of never going out on Fridays. Kris _knew_ there was a reason he should have got himself a girlfriend.)

So now Kris has been appointed Hero-of-the-Moment — he got the little pin and everything — and sent off to the Glam Lair, tasked with shaving the Beard at all costs, or dying trying. He's been issued an official HAI Safety Razor of Justice, and a can of Foaming Freedom Gel, and everything.

It _has_ to be done.

—

Le Mustachioed Man has a terrifying reputation. Just the year before, a girl wandered unsuspectingly into the Glam Lair, and came out wearing leather and lace. And singing. And she suddenly thought terrible, sleazy fat pirate beards were cool and attractive.

It is the official stance of the HAI (according to the decree of the BEGG) that such villainy cannot be allowed to spread. (Plus, y'know, there's also the fact that his minions killed all those nice drug traffickers and human smugglers and such down by the docks, when Le Mustachioed Man was taking over the city. That was pretty bad, too. Probably. Maybe. If you squint.) And Kris is the only one who is willing to oppose it.

It might have been easier to do, of course, if he hadn't followed a group of tourists into the Glam Lair, only to have them turn out to be a patrol of Guard Twinks in disguise. They sort of noticed right away — before they'd even passed the Pit of Waxing or the Vats of Dye, even! — that Kris didn't blend in.

(He _so_ should have worn his sparkly plaid. Even if he is more comfortable in his pink and turquoise one.)

Which is how he ended up wearing furry black handcuffs and being dragged in front of the Villain himself.

"Zis is _fantastique_ ," says Le Mustachioed Man, tapping the end of his cane against the ground and swinging the leg he has thrown over the arm of his large, overstuffed red velvet wingback armchair. He leers at Kris. "Ze Heroes, zey are now sending me ze men of ze delicious smallness? _Amusant_."

Kris refuses to be swayed by a little bit of foreign-accented sleaze. "I don't know what you're talking about?" he offers. "I'm lost."

"Ze poker face you put on zis morning," Le Mustachioed Man shakes his head mournfully, "it is not so very good, _moi_ regrets to tell you."

Kris pouts.

Le Mustachioed Man lifts his cane and smacks the nearest Guard Twink in the shin with it. "You," he says imperiously, "fetch me ze scotch." He twists and smacks a different Guard Twink. "And _you_ , take ze man of delicious smallness to ze Oubliette of Perpetual Debauchery."

" _Excuse_ me?" squeaks Kris, eyes widening. "But what if I don't want to be Perpetually Debauched?"

"Your mind, it will change," says Le Mustachioed Man. He waggles his black eyebrows at Kris.

Kris stares. " _Seriously_?"

The Guard Twinks drag Kris out. They take him up six flights of stairs to a room with windows on all sides, in what looks like the top of a tower, and drop him through the trap door that is the only thing in the room.

He lands on something soft, and looks around.

He's on a thick, wide round mattress, covered in silk sheets, with an uncountable and ridiculous number of pillows on it. The room is lit by round, hanging lamps in dark, seductive colors, with already-burning candles that smell like sex scattered on just about every flat surface, apparently for atmosphere; there's a jacuzzi in one corner, a huge red velvet wingback armchair in another, and cushions heaped in several places on the thick pile of the carpet. There's an enormous box of condoms and several ostentatiously huge bottles of lube on the table next to the bed — which also has a drawer marked "TOYS" in lurid red, impossible to miss Comic Sans.

Kris is still handcuffed.

"Argh," he complains.

—

Kris is trying to wiggle his cuffed hands down past his legs and around to his front when the trap door opens and a rope ladder is dropped down, and Le Mustachioed Man descends. His sparkly-headed, bedazzled cane is tucked under his arm, and in one hand is a tumbler of scotch.

He leers at Kris before his feet — now free of the black leather boots — even hit the mattress.

"Your derrière looks most ravishing in ze air," says Le Mustachioed Man. He drops down next to Kris, and the rope ladder is immediately withdrawn, the trap door slamming shut again behind it.

"You rhyme terribly," Kris says, and finally succeeds in yanking the cuffs and his wrists over his feet. He rolls over onto his back.

Le Mustachioed Man purses his lips in a sullen little moue of displeasure. " _Moi_ was attempting to give you a compliment."

"Sexual harassment is not a compliment," Kris says severely.

"If you do not wish for ze compliments, very well, zen." Le Mustachioed Man cocks his head to the side. "What _do_ you wish for? Tell, and _moi_ shall seduce you most thoroughly."

"I don't want to be seduced!" Kris scoots until he's sitting on the edge of the bed, and glares.

Le Mustachioed Man does not look fazed. "You do not wish to be Perpetually Debauched, you do not wish to be seduced. For what _do_ you wish, man of delicious smallness?"

Kris flails his furry-cuffed hands at the Villain. "I wish for you to _shave_ , is what I wish for!"

Le Mustachioed Man gives a horrified gasp, and his free hand goes immediately to his chin. "Sacrebleu! _Blaspheme_!"

Kris leans over and pokes at the hand covering the creepy chin growth. "All of it," he says, heartlessly, " _gone_."

"If you don't like it, you can _suck_ it," Le Mustachioed Man snarls.

"No, see, that's the point," says Kris, shaking his head. "I don't _want_ to suck it."

Le Mustachioed Man gives another horrified gasp. He looks like he's considering smacking Kris with his cane, but that would require dropping his scotch or letting go of his chin. He glares instead. "You are very mean, man of delicious smallness."

"I brought a razor," Kris tells him.

" _Moi will tie you to this bed_ ," says Le Mustachioed Man.

"Shave first," says Kris. "Then we'll talk."

Le Mustachioed Man wilts sadly. He looks at Kris with wounded eyes. "You resist my advances of suavity!"

Kris pokes at his chin again. " _Shave_ ," he repeats firmly.

Le Mustachioed Man moues disappointedly.

—

“Are you really _that_ attached to it?” Kris asks.

Le Mustachioed Man is still clutching his chin, though the scotch in his tumbler is almost gone. He throws an unimpressed glance at Kris, while still trying to pout even though he hasn’t been doing a very good job of it the last few minutes. “It grows from _moi_ ’s chin. _Moi_ is very attached to it, _naturellement_.”

“Yeah, you’re hilarious,” says Kris. He sighs. “Seriously, do you have to keep your hand there? It’s really weird having a conversation with a guy who’s clutching at his face.”

Le Mustachioed Man eyes Kris suspiciously.

Kris rolls his eyes. “Oh for— I’m not going to, to _pounce_ on you, or anything!”

“Pity,” says Le Mustachioed Man, affecting another moue of disappointment. He drops his hand, though.

“Thank you,” Kris says, graciously ignoring the innuendo.

Le Mustachioed Man sniffs. “Ze man of delicious smallness is welcome, _moi_ supposes.”

“See, look,” says Kris. “That, what you just said. You’re being _nice_. And you didn’t have me, like, _killed_ right away—”

“You could not be dead for ze ravishment,” Le Mustachioed Man says, righteously, “ _Moi_ is not into necrophilia!”

Kris ignores him. “— so _clearly_ , you’re not completely awful.”

Le Mustachioed Man eyes him. “Does ze man of delicious smallness have a point of considerable pointiness, or are you, how you say, talking out your — most delectable, _moi_ assures you — ass?”

“Why do it?” Kris asks. “Why go into villainy?”

“Why not?” Le Mustachioed Man shrugs elegantly. He tosses his cane off toward the edge of the bed. “ _Moi_ had to do _something_ with _moi_ ’s time.”

“But why be a _villain_?” Kris frowns. “Why not become, like, a hero? Maybe not a super _nice_ hero — but Daughtryman isn’t always nice, and he still manages.”

“Pah. Heroes, ze are _boring_ ,” says Le Mustachioed Man. “Ze do not get ze cool outfeets, ze catchy names. Ze do not get ze _lairs of awesomeness_.” He sniffs. “Villainy was clearly ze better choice.”

Kris stares.

“What?” says Le Mustachioed Man, defensively.

“Do you even know,” starts Kris, “what the budget for The Underwoman’s Super Secret Heroine Hideout was?”

“… _non_?” Le Mustachioed Man shakes his head.

Kris leans in. Very quietly, he confides, “A lot. _A whole lot_.”

Le Mustachioed Man gives an arrested expression. (The kind without handcuffs.)

“She has a hockey rink.”

“Oh,” says Le Mustachioed Man, in tones of revelation.

“Yeah. That’s what I thought.”

—

“ _Moi_ supposes,” Le Mustachioed Man allows, when Kris is halfway done riffling through the drawer marked ‘TOYS’, “that if ze man of delicious smallness offers a _très_ persuasive argument, _moi_ might _consider_ removing the mustache.”

“I feel like you already have a persuasive argument in mind,” says Kris, eyeing Le Mustachioed Man narrowly.

“ _Moi_ wishes to kiss you,” he says.

“Yeah, that’s never happening with the beard on,” agrees Kris. “You’d definitely have to get rid of it.”

Le Mustachioed Man looks hopeful. “But if I did?”

“Well.” Kris licks his lips. He eyes Le Mustachioed Man a bit more. “I’d consider it, at least.”

Le Mustachioed Man nods abruptly. “Very well. Come,” he declares, and climbs off the bed.

—

“An _elevator_?” says Kris, staring.

“Oui, but of course, an elevator. It is only what is practical.”

“Then why on earth did you use a trapdoor to get down here?”

Le Mustachioed Man sniffs haughtily. “Zese trifles, ze are for _dramatic effect_. But of course, you would not know zese things, man of delicious smallness.”

“You’re hilarious,” says Kris.

—

“And zis,” says Le Mustachioed Man, gesturing grandly, “is ze room for ze bathing and ze water-related debauchery! And also, for ze shaving.”

Kris gives him an unimpressed look. “It’s a bathroom.”

“Precisely!” Le Mustachioed Man beams at him. “Ze man of delicious smallness is _très_ observant!”

“What is that even— Are you even really French?” Kris demands, narrowing his eyes.

After a moment, Le Mustachioed Man wilts under the weight of Kris’s suspicion. “No,” he admits grudgingly, without any trace of the heavy accent.

Kris raises his eyebrows.

Le Mustachioed Man sighs. “I’m from San Diego. I went to Europe once, though!”

“Oh good grief,” says Kris. He throws up his hands. “What am I even supposed to call you now?”

“Hot Stuff?” Le Mustachioed Man tries, perking up hopefully.

Kris glares.

Le Mustachioed Man wilts again.

“Adam,” he says almost sullenly.

“Well, all right,” says Kris, giving a business-like nod and absolutely not at all melting inside at how freaking _cute_ the villain looks when he simply _pouts_ , instead of moueing. “Come sit down over here, then, Adam, and I’ll get rid of that horrifying facial follicle growth for you.”

“And then I can kiss you?” says Adam, coming over and perching cautiously on the closed toilet seat.

“Yes,” says Kris, reaching for the shaving cream, “And then you can kiss me.”


End file.
